Boys, Bruises, and Beverages
by ArlkatThePillowfighter
Summary: That boy in the coffee shop looks just like you. Not anatomically, of course. But he has the same cautious, solemn, haunted look in his eyes. He just doesn't hide them behind aviators. [DaveJohn Highschool AU. TW: Abuse, Molestation, Hurt, Homosexuality/Homophobia. Inspired by Boyinaband's 'Spectrum' feat. Minx and Cry. I do not own Homestuck or the characters. Possibly a oneshot.]
1. Illusion

Splintery rays of light filter through the gaps between your deep red curtains and the windowsill, probing you awake mere minutes before your alarm is scheduled to go off. You roll over, disentangling your limbs from the comforter as you reach to turn the alarm off before it can bitch at you now that you're already up. You groggily unplug your phone from the iHome on your bedstand, flicking your thumb across the screen and inputting your code. 1-2-0-3, the birthdate you share with your older brother. In 208 days you'll be seventeen. It's exactly 6:48 AM, though you had already known that as you not only swipe across the screen for wakeup but also disable the alarm itself so that it won't go off later.  
You set it aside, ignoring the six or seven texts you accumulated overnight while you throw off the covers and stumble from your bed. Solely in your red and black boxer briefs you push the bedroom door open with your shoulder, quietly heading downstairs to the one bathroom in this crappy apartment. Your brother isn't and will not be up until this afternoon at least, having returned home only hours ago himself. He works nights at Beforus, a club on the other side of town.  
Grabbing a red towel you slip into the shower, not bothering to wait for it to get warmer. You smear toothpaste across the bristles of your toothbrush and shine those pearly whites, while the water heats up soothingly against your back. It makes you relax and you start shifting through your mental wardrobe, wondering what to wear today. Late September, starting to get chilly but you don't need a heavy jacket just yet. You wash your hair, the scent of apples and cinnamon flooding the small space along with your quiet humming of Panic! at the Disco.  
The moment ten minutes have passed you shut the water off, drying your pale skin with the towel before wrapping it around your waist and grabbing a comb. You use the hand towel to wipe condensation from the glass, deep crimson eyes staring back at you. Running the comb through your hair momentarily you grab your hairdryer, flicking it on and feeling the hot air rush across the side of your head. The stringy, damp yellow locks slowly become golden blond waves, silky to the touch as you comb them. You smile slightly to yourself, you've always loved your hair.  
Unplugging the hairdryer you head upstairs, your perfect sense of time keeping you informed on when you have to leave for school. You pick out a pair of black flare jeans, red belt, white tee shirt and red windbreaker along with the bright red scarf you were gifted last birthday. You top it off with red converse and a pair of aviators, clipping your wallet to your belt and slipping your phone into your pocket. Sending quick messages of 'cool talk to you later' or 'omw to school' to your friends. Sliding your black beats around your neck as you walk downstairs and quietly close and lock the door behind you before turning on your music. Video Games by T¥P comes on first and you smile to yourself, humming along with it as you walk.  
It's only a few blocks to school, and your long legs allow you to span that in a matter of minutes. You get through 40 Years of Gaming by Dan Bull and Hot Mess by Cobra Starship before you arrive, just getting to the drop of Flesh by Simon Curtis when you step into the school. You expertly weave through the filling hallways to your locker, number 778. 23-09-17 to open it, tossing in your lunchbox and backpack. You slip your headphones down to your neck, just barely getting warning of approaching footsteps before the door is slammed into your head, forcing it against the corner of the locker next to yours.  
The illusion shatters as you flinch, yelping in pain. Your assailant trips you, laughing derisively as you hit the floor with a thump. You scrabble to get up but he lands a swift kick to your stomach. You're winded, everything is blurry and the only word echoing in your ears is 'faggot'.  
Your chest heaves and your stomach aches. He's caught you off guard, granted it was a Monday but you mentally curse yourself for not being prepared. There's nothing you can really do anyways, he's much bigger and stronger than you are. You instinctively cover your head with your hands as he steps on your neck, the sharp cracking sound of your expensive headphones shattering making you wince. Then his foot shoves the sharp splinters of plastic into your flesh like a brick, some of them making it past the collar of your jacket and drawing blood. You cough and flail, trying to shove him away but he simply grabs you by your golden locks and pulls hard, making you whimper at the pain and then suddenly the two of you are face-to-face. He's laughing.  
"Faggot. Fuckin' freak faggot, too."  
Your eyes. You know he's talking about them. When you were younger, maybe in kindergarten, you remember the other boys and girls fawning over your eyes as if they were cool. Many have complimented you on them in your lifetime but ten times as many have called you freak, or demon, or monster. You've learned to live with them, but it's an extra little bite to his detriment.  
You know you'll get a much worse beating for it but it helps you keep composure when you bite back.  
"Nice use of alliteration, Lucas. It's a wonder you failed English."  
He scowls, using his grip on your hair to smash your face into the door of the locker next to yours. You contemplate just how lucky you are that you hit the flat part, in the interim before he brings his knee sharply up between your legs and your world is splintered into pain. You collapse into a ball on the cold floor, howling your complaint as he laughs and walks away, leaving you with your hands protecting what has suddenly become much more important than your head.  
Minutes pass before the bell rings, and you're going to be late once again. A groan rumbles from your throat as you stand slowly, slinging your backpack over your shoulder and flinging your locker shut. Your shades are cracked and on the floor but you slip them on anyways, sniffing and wiping blood from your nose as you walk through the emptying halls to your first class.

 **So... That's chapter one of B3 for you. I've been trying out a new method, putting you, the reader, into the mind and body of one Dave Strider. Did it work? Did you feel connected with him? Did it break your heart to see how his world shattered like that?  
Love you guys, AR.  
(P.S., bonus points to anyone who gives me suggestions directly based on or related to Spectrum!)  
(P.P.S. That's not as long as I had expected, only two pages in word... pretty short... I'll try harder, I promise!)**


	2. Girls

**Jesus, I hate it when that happens. HERE YOU GO.**

No one questions you as to your injuries when you step into class, not even the teacher. You slip into the back, taking your seat next to the girl with purple eyes. You like her. She's never said a word to you, never given off any intention to care about you but she doesn't hate you either. You've seen her watching, you know she's seen you being picked on multiple times. She just stands there and watches, almost as if she's interested. In what? You'll probably never know. Her name is Rosalyn Lalonde, as you know from when the teacher calls roll and from glancing at her bright purple colored notebooks. She wears purple contacts every day, except one day a year that you assume is her birthday because everyone makes a fuss about it. She has one blue eye and one brown eye.  
You scribble idly in your notebook as the teacher talks, the constant ringing in your right ear preventing you from listening properly. Not that you're paying attention anyways, busy sketching. You like to sketch people, with their infinitely varying sets of variables and different thoughts, feelings, and personalities. No two people are the same, not even remotely, and you find them amazing to sketch. To capture the essence of. If she weren't sitting right next to you, you would have drawn her. But you don't, because she is.  
The hour passes slowly, no one says a word to you except a single barked derogative near the end when a jock had the chance. Not that you care. It's not like it burns itself into your brain like everything else. You're just fine. You have graphite stains all over your fingers and the desk but you've come up with a drawing of your chemistry table partner. Netta, you think her name is. She's very energetic and willing to complete the projects herself as long as you get her candy or something that particular day. She has pretty green eyes and wavy orange hair, and she always wears this one cat ear headband and her blue tail. Her nose is tweaked a bit to the side and her canines are the biggest part of her smile, her ears are small but a bit pointed like elf ears and she has about a bazillion freckles covering her cheeks and nose. Her hair frames her face nicely and she's all lithe curves. She's pretty, yes, but you of course aren't interested. You like to draw her, though. She loves your drawings but her boyfriend Zach is super protective so you always keep them, just showing them to her during class. She's one of the only people at this school who have ever actually talked to you without calling you some horrid slur, she's very nice to everyone and is of course protected by her monster of a boyfriend.  
You have a five minute passing period before chemistry, you stand outside the door and simply work on shading her eyes just right when the pad is ripped from your hands and sneered at.  
"Aww, does Davey-wavey have a little crush?" The feminine voice laughs, holding it out of your reach with her long spider-like arms.  
"Hey! Give that back, Vicky!"  
Victoria Circuit is pretty much the bitch of the school. She has porcelain fang implants and deep blue eyes that steal your soul and devour it right in front of you. She has the blondest of blond hair, rivaling yours in color that waves down all the way to her waist. She dresses like a blue gothic. You actually had a crush on her when you first arrived at this school, of course that was before you figured it out. So she's taken the liberty of personally antagonizing you.  
"Looks like little Davey's trying to pretend he doesn't wanna fuck his brother! Hahahaha! Aww, you want your stupid drawing back?"  
You scowl at her. She knows you can't hit her because a) she could kick your ass and b) if you hit her first she can play the victim. You settle for yanking her arm down and grabbing the notebook, leaving yourself unprotected for one second. Of course she knows you're doing so, and punches you right in the face during that one second. You fall to the ground flat on your ass, you can't believe you're cowering from a girl but she terrorizes more than half of the biggest guys in school.  
The bell rings and she laughs at you again, disappearing off to her class and leaning you to gather your things, shuffling into Chemistry. Netta must be absent today, she doesn't show up. That's fine with you, she's good friends with Victoria and probably wouldn't be happy that 'you' had 'instigated' a fight with her. Hmmph. You're the one with a black eye, you didn't lay a hand to that bitch. You can feel one forming anyways, she hits fucking hard. You're going to have a hell of a time explaining that one off.  
You have a quiz today, and it's fairly easy. Multiple choice and everything, it's even on oxidation numbers. You could do this in your sleep. The only sound in the room is graphite scratching across paper and your mind easily transitions into your art class without even realizing it, you don't remember Chemistry ending or walking across campus but here you are. You shrug, continuing to draw a nice sketch of your brother. You're starting to put this morning off, shoving it into a corner of your mind you don't give a damn about right now. It's just you and your drawing until the bell rings.  
You calmly pack your things up, slinging your backpack over your shoulder and heading outside. You don't eat lunch, either. You find eating rather unnecessary most of the time, honestly. You think you'll take a nice long walk but it's just your luck that you run into a group of jocks having a smoke behind the school. This makes even you pale and halt, skittering backwards and dropping your backpack to see if you can run for it. You can't. One of them grabs your arm, laughing, and drags you back to the group. Dean, you think his name is. You aren't sure. They encircle you, playing some sort of pass-around game where you're the ball and they're shoving you roughly to one another. The leader, Dean(?), decides to move it along and sock you in the gut. Effectively winding you as he grabs your arm, yanking your sleeve up and grinding out his cigarette against the scars littered there like the side of a highway. Your arm is numb with white hot pain and your world whites out in panic, you thrash desperately and try to breathe, scream for help but nothing comes out and it's torture. The other four or five join in, more pain tossed on top haphazardly and you're not sure how much longer you can hold on. To what? You don't even know what you're holding on to anymore, it could be your consciousness or it could be your sanity.  
And then it's over. You're left curled in a ball of pain and short whimpering breaths, you think one of them kicked you as they walked off but you can't feel anything but your burning arm. You don't know how long it is that you lie there, alone and dead inside, but eventually the bell rings unpleasantly and forces you to get up, tug down your sleeve, and make your way to your next class.  
That's right, you have Public Speaking after lunch... The teacher, Mrs. Maryam, she's probably one of the only reasons you're alive right now. She listens to you and doesn't call you a liar or try to tell the principal about what's going on or anything. She gives you advice and is generally just a shoulder to cry on for you. It's very nice.  
The class goes by rather quickly and you rush to her immediately afterwards. You have a free fifth and you always spend it with her. She simply smiles and hands you an index card with an address written on it.  
"David, I am afraid I cannot be here for you this afternoon. My daughter is sick and requires my presence. I feel a nice cup of coffee might help you out, I enjoy frequenting this cafe not too far from the school. I want you to visit it during your fifth hour and tell me what you love most about it tomorrow. I am sure you will love it."  
You nod quietly, rubbing your sore throat as she walks out and slipping your backpack on again. You glance over the address and pocket the index card, walking out after her and right out the double doors at the end of the hallway.  
Alternia Cafe, 41309 W. Andrew Ave.

So how has this been? Do you guys love it or what? I love writing it. I promise I'll get around to the other things but for now I think I'll stick with this...  
Sorry. Heh.


	3. Blue

It's brisk outside, goosebumps rising even beneath your windbreaker that make you shiver. Stuffing your hands in your pockets, you keep your head down as you leave school grounds. You trust Mrs. Maryam, you won't ask any questions as you head to the cafe she gave you the address to. Walking in silence down 17th, passing places you would normally stop to window shop as they are right near your home. Taking a turn your sense of familiarity doesn't diminish one bit and you're starting to wonder if she's actually sending you somewhere you already know. There's that little Starbucks-like place a few blocks down with the pumpkin on the logo. What-Pumpkin, maybe? You don't really remember, you've never been yourself but you know your brother loves to flirt with one of the baristas there.  
Looking up at the sign as you wait at a crosswalk you realize it's South 19th St. and you passed Andrew Ave. awhile back. You pause, rolling your eyes behind your shades as you backtrack down the sidewalk. You'd been so caught up in your thoughts you'd actually missed the turnoff. You make the right turn this time, and right on your left is a little cafe decorated in dull rainbows.  
'Alternia Cafe'  
You glance at the card before pocketing it again, walking into the place quietly. It's no different from any other cafe, except the theme is a little offbeat: darkly painted walls that almost look like stone, splattered with thick paint of various dull colors mixed with gothic/medieval furnishings. The patrons are all completely normal looking people, with the exception of the barista wearing grey makeup and weird candy corn horns. You immediately don't like it here, your brighter colors contrast and you stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone looks at you but you're having none of that. You take a seat in the back, at a table completely alone, and the attention slowly shifts from you as the handful of patrons go back to their conversations.  
The grey barista smiles lazily and saunters over to you, handing you a menu. He's wearing the weirdest combination of clothes you've ever seen. Black and gray polka dotted slacks with indigo converse, a black tee shirt with a purple capricorn sign on it and a violet bow in his messy black hair with wavy horns sticking out of it that range from a red-orange-yellow gradient. He's wearing contacts that make his irises a deep indigo and his sclera yellowish, and his teeth are all ceramic fangs. He's also wearing white clownish makeup overtop of the grey, making him look even more ridiculous.  
"How's it goin', mothafucka? What can I get you?" His voice is deeper than you would have expected, with rough gravel in it but he seems pretty friendly. And stoned to high hell. You shrug, barely glancing at the menu before looking back up at him.  
"I'll have a white chocolate mocha with a peppermint stick."  
He blinks. "Uhh.. I don't think we have any o' them peppermint sticks, brotha."  
"Three pumps peppermint, then."  
"Alrighty, then. My name's Garrett, you need somethin' you just call for Gamzee, cool?"  
You nod, looking back down at the menu for something to eat. "Cool. I'll be ready to order when you get back with my drink."  
He grins again, walking off to make your order and leaving you with your thoughts. All of the food is described really weirdly, using words that you don't really think should be associated with anything that's supposed to be tasty. You settle on what you're sure is a brownie a la mode, which is called a 'Endothermic Yeast-Baked Cacao Bean Square' topped with a scoop of 'Frozen Churned Milkbeast Harvest'.  
You look up as the door opens, and you have to do a double take. It is not, in fact, the young adult with dazzling green eyes you've seen more than you really want to of traipsing around your apartment once or twice a week that Dirk still hasn't told you the name of. Instead it's another messy-haired, bucktoothed boy with wire framed glasses, his theme seems to be blue instead. He doesn't have that same energy, either, his sapphire eyes are dull and clouded and though he doesn't slouch his yellow converse drag across the ground as he sits at a table alone by a window. He's wearing a navy blue sweatshirt and black slacks, an earbud in one ear as he looks down at the table. The stoner barista takes his order with a smile, joking something that makes him laugh quietly. You can't help it, behind the shades you're staring and somehow you think he knows.  
You rub the still-tender burn marks on your arms through your coat as you look down at the menu again, suddenly you're not hungry but you know you should eat something.  
"Yo, Earth to coolkid. You okay there?" The stoner dude - Gamzee - sets a cup down in front of you while snapping his long fingers between your eyes. You shake your head, looking up.  
"Hm? Fine, thanks. I'll have that." You point to the technical-brownie thing on the menu, he nods and takes it with his lazy grin.  
"One plate of miracles comin' right up, brotha."  
He walks off and you're left to stare at the dark-haired boy again for a few minutes before you shake your head slightly to yourself, pulling out a book. Fiend by Peter Stenson is your favorite read right now, it's intense and sucks you in every time you part the pages. You don't look up until the barista places your plate in between you and the book, and you're startled to find the blue eyed boy sitting across from you. He's watching you curiously, as if you're the most interesting thing in the world right now. You feel slightly unnerved by the intensity of his seemingly innocent staring, but you don't back down as you begin to eat your food. You get about halfway through before you set the fork down on the plate and push it over to him. He seems surprised, looking down at it for a few moments before he takes a bite, looking back up at you as he chews. As you look at him up close you see many of the same features as in yourself, the dark patches under his eyes and slight paleness of his skin despite his obvious efforts to take care of himself, shown by the perfection of his layered hair. Or maybe it's just like that. Whatever the case you sip your drink as you watch him finish your brownie, taking slight glimpses of his wrists when his sleeves ride up. You don't get any conclusive evidence, so you don't say anything. The barista casually places the boy's drink on your table as he passes by, he's thanked and you get a snippet of his tired but grateful voice. You get to about halfway finished with your silent coffee-drinking when he heads to the restroom. You pull a red sharpie from your pocket and scrawl your number on his cup, not leaving a name or anything before you leave enough for both orders on the table and head out, drink in hand, to walk back home.

 **DAMN IT. I still refuse to apologize for shameless JakeDirk allusions and shitty stoner Gamzee.**


	4. Dream

The walk home is darker than it had been, but you easily make it back the way you came and to your apartment within ten minutes. Sifting for your house key off your chain, you idly notice your brother's truck is gone. Thank god, you can catch a break today. You push the door in, shutting it quietly behind you when you notice the man half-wrapped in a blanket and sprawled on your couch. You don't even know or care who it is until you pass by him, catching an accented mutter about a purple kitty cat. It's the Brit that blue-eyes reminds you of, the one you blame for having to wear headphones at night. You scoff in disgust, moving on to the kitchen and rooting around in the fridge. Leftover buffalo wings, a tube of cookie dough, apple juice, whipped cream - you shudder, making a face as you grab the juice, pouring some into your Castiel pint glass and head into the bathroom to examine your neck. You'd checked earlier and none of the plastic shards from your headphones had penetrated your skin, you had a few scrapes but it was alright enough. You place a red dog collar over the wounds, it fits nicely and you look almost normal. You smile to yourself, heading upstairs with your ape juice and shutting your door behind you, latching the chain. You've learned what happens when you don't. With a shiver you curl up in your bed, a pair of earbuds in as you pull you blanket over your head. You listen to so many Dan Bull and Machinima tracks you lose count, especially around seven when you hear your brother return home. You're going to Febreze the hell out of that couch the first chance you get. Your music is suddenly disrupted with the familiar ping of a text and you look down at your phone, expecting a text from one of your internet friends. Instead it's an unfamiliar number, but you tap on it anyways.  
 _'coffee was good today. tomorrow, same time?'  
_ You feel your cheeks heating up embarrassingly when you realize it's blue-eyes. You attempt to straighten up your dweebish smile, instead replying after a minute or so to make it seem like you were doing something and not lying around tuning out the sounds of literal horseplay in the next room.  
 _'sounds good'  
_ He replies immediately and you're relieved. He doesn't play games.  
 _'i'll be there. goodnight!'  
'night'  
_Such a short conversation but then, neither of you had been there to talk. You wanted time away from whatever hell you were escaping from. The fact that you had found someone worthy of your attention who was real and in the flesh, that was just a bonus. You suddenly can't wait to see him tomorrow, and have to turn your music up as loud as it can possibly go to get to sleep.  
That night the color blue worms its way into your dreams, splashing against and mixing with your usual red. You don't feel the seconds ticking by like you usually do, instead it's a timeless moment. For once, you couldn't be happier.

 **Well there you have it, that's day one. Day two might just be in the life of John, depends.**

 **A/N add-on: My life has just officially become a tiny slice of hell. I don't know if this means I won't be updating anything anymore or if I'll be updating everything more frequently, but whatever happens I'm sorry in advance. It might be awhile before I say anything again, either.**

 **\- AR**


End file.
